In the high sky
Where the air is weak
And full of strangers
Nothing lives for long
Only gypsy-footed drifters
Come here on their way
To who knows where

And this place can only be reached
Without anchor or rudder
Nor even a moral compass
Riding on clouds of smoke
And it's such a long way down
Through falling-about laughter
And blood in the gutter
To the hungry crushing ground

                                              By Phil Roberts

Sometimes we try too hard to put smiles on people's face, only to discover our self is full of unhappiness

Written by
Joey Percival Ikechukwu

What is this line that separates us?

Why this lone tape that cordons our spaces?

Who assigned the thread that parts land and sky; earth and the heavens?

How is it that a boundary could be invisible yet bind so sure?

Which of us was given the right to reinforce... to validate this demarcation?

So what is this line that separates us?



It's reality.

.

She wore a dress cut from the night sky
scattered with stars and dreams
and her smile
had a mischievous curve at each end
and a hint of magic glittered
in the colors surrounding her eyes
and she spoke in a voice
that echoed with the beauty of poetry
and he was tempted to crawl away
from the shyness that lived in his bones
and he managed to make small talk
but fell short of bravery
and slunk into the night without stars
and a dream that knew only her name

When I was still young and fresh
A million years ago
I walked on edges
Always on the edge of something
Something wild

Bright lights and long nights
Lots of laughter and music
Always music
Singing with the band
Dodging the flying glass
When fights broke out
Howling to the moon
Oh, wild indeed were we

All shadows now, alas
Visions from an addled brain
Pubs, clubs and smoky dumps
Leave no turn unstoned was the cry
More fun than fundamental
And fundamentally flawed, it was
A couple of hours sleep 'fore the day job
With eye-lids stuck together
And walking into walls
But still I wouldn't have swapped it
For all the strait laced straight faced
Wealth in the world

                                 By Phil Roberts

The Room of Dancing Shadows,
undulating across the wall,
like ****** Persian ballerinas,
making no sound at all.
Reaching, retreating, a mosaic form,
eternally shifting the dark shade.
Pictures of no light in a flux,
remain fragmented, cold, unmade.
Hypnotising, random shapes in black,
swim serenely, start to slide.
The Room of Dancing Shadows
holds its fear deep, deep inside.


© Pagan Paul (03/10/16)